ONE

      “I’m going to be fine, Auntie Zee. Please stop worrying about me.” Yasmine Browder hoisted her messenger bag higher on her shoulder and tucked her cell phone between her cheek and ear so she could reach back to pull her ponytail holder out of her hair. After having her hair up all day at the bakery, her scalp felt tight and in desperate need of relief. “I’m not lonely.”

      It was a partial truth, but she wanted to ease her aunt’s anxieties, not add to them.

      “I can’t help but worry about you, honey.” Her aunt’s words were strained. “You’ve been back for only eight months and you work so hard, and now, with Daniel gone...”

      Aunt Zara’s voice trailed off, but Yasmine caught the unspoken meaning. She ignored it and slipped the hair elastic around her wrist. She pulled her sweater sleeves down, sneezing at the flour released from where it had become trapped in the fabric. She normally wore short-sleeved shirts to work, but the weather had cooled with the change of seasons—and besides, she often found herself chilled by the weather in western New York State. Especially after having returned here only about eight months ago from a ten-year stay overseas in the Kingdom of Amar, the desert-swathed country where most of her mother’s family lived.

      “I have to put in the work if I want Cinnamon Sunrise to thrive. Starting a small business is no easy feat.” She’d come back to her hometown to live with her brother, but since his death several weeks ago, she’d begun wondering if she ever should have come back at all. He’d been happy to share his apartment with her, but now that she was on her own...well, Auntie Zee wasn’t far off in her concerns. In dusty Amar, she’d never been alone, constantly surrounded by friends and family, whereas the prospect of entering the apartment tonight, knowing she’d spend the evening inside by herself watching television or reading—or, if she was being honest with herself, probably working on new recipes for the bakery’s Thanksgiving menu—sounded less than appealing.

      But what was her other option? Admit defeat to her aunt and listen to another lecture on why she was wasting her life running a bakery? Or phone a relative back in Amar, only to hear a different lecture about how she should move back there for good? That wasn’t appealing, either, and besides, she loved Newherst. And New York State, despite the weather. She’d made a good life here in only eight months, and she cherished her childhood memories of this town.

      “You’re better than this, Yasmine. All that education and all that discipline you learned in the military, and you spend your days baking rolls. For what? You might as well go out and get married like your cousins. At least then—”

      “I like what I do, auntie.” Yasmine tried to maintain her composure as she trudged up the steps to her brother’s fifth-floor apartment. The elevator would have been faster, sure, but staying health-conscious had become a priority since she started spending her days around breads, sweets and pastries. “And I’m surprised you’re not more supportive. You remember that many of my recipes are based on your own wonderful creations, right? The people of Newherst adore your spiced flatbread.”

      Her aunt grumbled unintelligibly as Yasmine reached the apartment door and dug in her bag for the keys.

      “I’m home, auntie. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”

      “You’ll come for dinner, is what you’ll do. At six.”

      “The bakery closes at six. I’ll come as soon as the doors are shut and locked.” Yasmine found her keys in a side pocket and shook her head at the silliness of constantly losing the same item over and over each day, in the same bag, no less. She slipped the key into the lock.

      “Fine.” Her aunt went silent before releasing a heavy sigh. “I love you, honey. And I miss your brother.”

      “We all do, Auntie Zee. Love you, too, and see you tomorrow.” She turned the door handle, slipped her phone into her messenger bag and paused.

      Something felt wrong.

      She pulled the door shut again and slipped the key out. When she’d turned the key, she hadn’t heard a click, which meant that the door hadn’t been locked after all. She clearly remembered locking the door that morning. The only other people with a key to this apartment were the building landlord and her aunt, and her aunt didn’t drive.

      Her throat grew tight and dry as she considered her options. Maybe it was a neighbor and the landlord had let the person in. Or maybe there’d been a utilities issue and someone had come inside to fix it, and nobody had locked up afterward.

      She glanced down the hallway, seeing nothing else amiss.

      “You’re just being paranoid,” she mumbled. “You’re alone and jumpy since losing Daniel, and now look at you, talking to yourself. Get a grip before you give Auntie Zee more ammunition.”

      Taking a deep breath, Yasmine gripped the handle again and turned. She pushed open the door and lifted her messenger bag strap up to slip it off her shoulder. A click came from somewhere nearby, and she froze.

      “Hello? Is somebody there?” Stop it, she thought. There’s nobody—

      Something zipped past her ear, splintering the door frame beside her. At the same instant, the two front windows shattered as black-clad bodies burst through them into the room, aiming large semiautomatic weapons at her.

      As the next bullet zipped past her ear, she dropped to the floor and rolled out of the apartment, then sprang to her feet and sprinted down the hallway. Bullets tore through the wall beside her, ripping through her living room and bedroom. Those are powerful guns. She scolded herself for the thought. Why are you analyzing their weapons at a time like this? Go, go, go!

      Her left knee began to sting, but despite knowing what that sting might mean, she kept moving. She’d taken a bullet before, during her time in the Amar military. She’d joined out of loyalty to her family’s heritage and as a way to earn dual citizenship with both countries she considered home.

      She reached the elevator and paused, but the thundering of boots behind her said she’d run out of time. It was back to the stairs.

      She spun on her heel and slammed her body through the door into the stairwell. She felt air displacement as a bullet whipped past her shoulder. She gripped the hand rail and took the stairs three, four at a time, swinging her body around at each landing to gain precious seconds in her escape.

      Of course, if whoever was shooting at her had left somebody outside to guard the